


Bite Down

by tbazzsnow (Artescapri)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood Drinking, Canon Divergent, Discussion of Blood, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, Post Wayward Son, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Sick Fic, Simon is ill, Vampire Turning, Vampirism, baz is the caretaker, canonical setting, discussions of blood products, first bite, quarantine fic, realistic depictions of illness and fever, realistic depictions of respiratory virus illness, set in real time 2020, set in the time of COVID, severe illness portrayed in this fic, there is a lot of angst for Baz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23287240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow
Summary: Hurt/comfort fic set in the time of quarantine. Baz and Simon shelter in place in London during the pandemic but they are not aware SImon has been infected until he falls ill. Baz does the care taking as Simon descends into illness and then Baz has some very difficult moments to face and decisions to make. Angst with a happy ending.*there are very real descriptions of severe upper respiratory illness in this fic*
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 56
Kudos: 248





	Bite Down

**Author's Note:**

> written in a 24 hour span because my brain couldn't stop thinking about this. My contribution to the hurt/comfort genre and quarantine fic subgroup. I've got a million other WIPs but my brain decided to go down this rabbit hole. 
> 
> my thanks to BasicBathsheba and Krisrix for the beta reads

**Bite Down**

_**Day 1** _

**Simon**

Penny left this morning. Her mum wanted her home once the shutdown order came through and with her uni having gone all online there wasn’t much point in her staying around.

Other than for me, that is.

She wanted to but I told her that’s daft. She should be with her family. I’d never choose to cross Mitali Bunce and there’s no reason for Penny to, not for this.

I’ll be fine. My classes are all online. I can buy what I need at the corner shop and the curry place is staying open.

And I’ve got Baz. He’s staying too. Spouted some rubbish about not wanting to possibly transmit something to his family, seeing as they’re half-isolated as it is, way out where they are.

And don’t I know it. I made that jog from the road to their place more than once. Isolated doesn’t do it justice. It’s _remote._

But I also know that’s not the real reason he’s staying here. I know he’s staying for me, the sappy git.

I tried to make him go. Tried to convince him he should be with his family.

He’d turned his sea-grey eyes on me then and said, “I am with my family.”

There’s not much I could say in answer to that. Not with words that is. I practically knocked him off the sofa in my attempt to snog him senseless. He says things like that and I . . . well, fuck, it makes me believe it’s all been worth it. All that came before.

No, I know it’s worth it. I’d give up my magic again in a heartbeat to have what I’ve got with Baz. Give it all to the Humdrum, fight mutant vampires in the desert, deal with that fucking Lamb character—I’d go through it all over again for him. Every moment of it, to be where we are now.

Together. In love and able to say it. Out loud. To each other.

My therapy appointments are down to once a month now. Baz and I have one together every few months. I was surprised when he started seeing someone, a few months after we came back. After everything had finally settled down.

Fiona found him someone she trusted. 

It made it easier for me to do it, once he started. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why he did it. But there’s never been a point in asking him that. It doesn’t serve a purpose. He wouldn’t have kept going if it wasn’t something he needed as well. So why he started doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he did.

And I did.

And we’re here now, better than we’ve ever been.

Well, other than this pandemic shit.

I don’t think it’s going to be as bad as they say. They’ve shut the whole damn country down. Hospitals and clinics at ready. I think it will take time, but it’ll pass.

It’s done a right number on all of our plans, I’ll say that.

Last year of uni for Baz and Penny. I basically fucked away my first year so I’m a bit behind, but still. We’re all moving forward, not looking back.

I hope this doesn’t fuck up Baz’s graduation. He’s top of his class here too, the swot. I want to see that. See him graduate.

I didn’t get to see him give his leavers speech at Watford.

Baz says he’s not fussed about graduation. What he’s fussed about is possibly having to cancel his graduation gift from his parents. They’ve sprung for a two-week vacation on the Continent for the both of us.

I’m part of the gift, it seems. Daphne came right out and said it like that, when they told Baz about it. I thought I was going to go up in flames right there and then.

It’s right embarrassing sometimes, the things she and Malcolm say. I call him Malcolm now, as if that doesn’t take the bloody cake. Took me long enough. (It’s still awkward as fuck, but he likes it so I try.)

It was bad enough when they assumed we were shagging and we weren’t. Yet.

Now they’re even less inhibited. Sending us away on romantic weekend trips. Buying us matching gifts. Asking us when we’re going to move in together (yes, we’ve talked about it) (probably this summer) (or we were planning to, before this bloody thing started) (just hadn’t told anyone but Penny yet.)

But this. This is like some wedding planner’s ideal honeymoon trip. Paris. Venice. Barcelona. The bloody Amalfi Coast.

It’s as if Daphne looked up every romantic location on Pinterest and added it to the itinerary.

Every bloody _romantic proposal location,_ I mean.

That’s what it feels like to me.

Because I’d been thinking to ask him, after graduation. And I’ll be good god-damned if I don’t get to do it first.

Knowing Baz, he’d probably try to get the drop on me, just to be a competitive arse.

No, he wouldn’t actually. Not for this. He’d want me to be sure, he’d want to know I was the one who really wanted it.

And he’d want to see me try to set up something romantic. For him. He’s such a sappy git. I think he’d be just as thrilled if I did it in the Tesco car park as the Eiffel Tower at sunset.

Which is where I’m currently planning on asking, when I let myself think about it. Paris, that is, not the Tesco. Although last week it was a gondola in Venice. And by next week it may well be somewhere else.

It’s not as if I’ve bought a ring or anything yet. I was waiting a bit. Getting comfortable with the idea rather than just letting myself daydream about it.

Not that I’ll be getting any ring shopping done anytime soon.

Not even online, not with his meddlesome self looking over my shoulder when I’m on my laptop, now that he’s going to be here every minute, not just a few nights a week.

He’s here more than a few nights, to be honest, has been for a while. Unless he’s got a big paper or some sort of group project and I’m too much of a _distraction_.

Baz basically moved in at the start of the fall term. I mean, he still has his place in Camberwell. He’s just rarely there anymore.  
  
His clothes fill my closet, he’s got a colourful array of spare pants in the dresser, his toiletries on my sink and in my shower—not travel sized versions carried back and forth in his knapsack anymore.

There’re orderly pints of blood in the fridge and cold vampire feet in my bed every night.

I’m not complaining one bit. It’s taken us long enough to get here.

And so here we are, our coursework done for the day, curled up on my sofa watching _Derry Girls_ again, my head resting on his shoulder.

I’m feeling all right. None of the symptoms they’re blathering on about in the news updates and emails from the uni health centre.

And Baz . . . well, he’s being Baz. Calm in the midst of the anxiety that’s overtaken the city. Meticulous about his personal hygiene and bloody annoying about mine.

Like now.

“Go wash your hands, Simon.”

“I just did, when I went to the loo a bit ago.”

“You just touched your nose. Wash them again.”

“Bloody hell, must you watch me every minute?”

“Not about to change my habits now, they’re ingrained.” He’s smiling, the prat.

“Don’t I know it.”

His eyebrow goes up. “Someone has to, you’re an absolute menace to cleanliness as a rule.”

“Piss off.”

But I love him for it, so I go and wash my hands. I know why he does it. I know it’s out of concern.

I’m being careful. I am.

I’ve not been out other than for a run, not since uni shut down. I mean other than to go to the corner shop for snacks a few days ago. And to the curry place for some samosas yesterday.

Baz has put a stop to all that now though. Said he’s doing the shopping and the food runs from now on. I watched him empty the shopping bags earlier—wouldn’t even let me help, the tosser. He’s stocked up on paracetamol, thermometer covers, zinc throat lozenges, throat syrup, and whatnot.

“Didn’t you get any crisps? I thought you were going to get more crisps?” We’re not going to make it long without crisps.

He just rolls his eyes at me. “We’ve got bags of them, Simon. We’ll be fine.”

**Baz**

I’m trying not to let on to Simon how worried I am.

I’ve seen the projections. It’s not looking good. This government has bollocksed the entire situation from the very start. Even my father is appalled at the Tories and has not been shy about saying so, which is unprecedented and not doing anything to dampen my anxiety about all this.

It’s end times when my father is to the point of vehemently condemning a Tory government.

I don’t know what Simon and Penelope were thinking. They’ve not stocked up on much other than toilet paper and crisps. I had to purchase the bare necessities today and it took me to two Tescos and one Boots to find any paracetamol.

I do know what Penelope was thinking—that a few well-cast spells would sort it.

She sorted Simon when I thought we’d lose him. I can understand her confidence but it’s wildly misplaced.

This isn’t like that.

This is, for lack of a better term, insidious. Fuck. I hate that word. I can’t use it and not think of the bloody Humdrum. That leads to thinking about the Mage and Simon’s magic and then I’m off on tangents that make me want to rage.

I know it’s been years now. I know he and I have both talked through it, with each other and with Simon’s therapist.

But at moments like this, in the middle of this fucking plague, all I can think about is how much easier this would be, how much safer, if Simon still had his magic. Not that it made him impervious to injuries or illnesses. It didn’t, I know that first hand, from all those nights he’d drag himself up the steps to our turret, bruised and battered and a bloody mess.

But he had a capacity to heal, to bounce back, without needing to be coated in spells. He’s not got that anymore.

But he acts like he still does.

Like he did in America. Like he’s acting now. Like somehow, he’s resistant to it all, that he can barrel through as he is and still come out relatively unscathed.

I’ve put a stop to all that. No more trips to the corner shop or the curry place. No unnecessary activities outside of the flat. None. I’ll be damned if we’ve made it this far only to have some rogue virus destroy it all.

I’m the one who’s impervious. I’m the one who will still be standing at the end of the day, when this is all over. And I want Simon at my side.

I need him to be.

He can content himself with sitting at home, on the sofa, watching the telly. I’ll even buy him some cider, if he’ll just bloody well stay inside.

Here I am, wishing that Simon Snow would just lie the fuck down on the sofa and not argue about it. Who would have thought we’d come to this? Crowley, the world is upside down.

At least now I get to lie down with him.

_Day 4_

**Simon**

I’m caught up on all my coursework. I’m actually a bit ahead because even though I’m a _distraction_ to Baz, he’s still such a complete wanker about his study time that I’ve stayed at the table with him, when I could be playing Overwatch. I’ve climbed up the leaderboards since Christmas. I’ve a good chance to go higher.

I’d rather be here at the table with him.

It’s been bloody brilliant being here together, even if I am itching to get outside. Waking up to Baz every day with no alarm clock to put an abrupt end to morning-breath kisses and more.

Sipping our tea across from each other at the kitchen table, Baz’s foot rubbing at my calf, my fingers reaching out to trace patterns on his forearm as he does the crossword.

Long, leisurely showers without Penny banging on the door and shouting about water conservation and unsanitary usage of our bathroom facilities.

It’s like a montage of our best weekends but we get that every day now. Domestic. Warm and comforting and it makes me think even harder about what I want to ask him.

We’re good together. Better than good. I want a lifetime of these moments. I wanted that before, mind you, but this isolation at home has made me yearn for it. I can see what it’d be like, living together, _really living together_ —not how we were at Watford, but how we are now.

Content.

Domestic.

Romantic.

Kind.

So fucking in love it takes my breath away.

Baz lifts his head from his laptop and smiles at me. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this smile—not a hint of a sneer anywhere to it, just his perfect lips quirked up, a soft dimple in his left cheek.

Merlin, I love him.

I tell him just that then take a sip of water. My throat feels dry.

**Baz**

I swear Simon’s heart rate is higher today. I know the beat of it as well as I know my own. I know it gets higher when he’s anxious, angry, aroused. It goes up in staccato bursts when he’s feeling those emotions, and then it slows back down to its familiar pace.

It’s not slowing back down. He’s on the sofa reading a book at the moment, so it doesn’t make sense.

It’s not alarmingly high—but higher than I’m used to.

“You all right, Simon?”

He lifts his head from his book to give me a puzzled look. “I’m fine. A bit hungry I guess.” He shrugs and grins. “Always am I suppose.” He tilts his head and narrows his eyes a bit. “Why’re you asking?”

I’m leaning against the kitchen doorway. It’s almost time for lunch. I raise one eyebrow and keep my expression bored, neutral. “You’ve not come foraging for food yet. Wanted to make sure you were feeling ok.” I smirk, hoping he focuses on that and not the tinge of concern that creeps into my voice.

He waves the book at me. “Got caught up in the story.” He pushes off the sofa and grins. “But I’ll not say no to something to eat. You going to make something or we getting curry again?”

“We’ve got plenty of spaghetti left over from last night, you bottomless pit.” Simon’s right in front of me now, hands sliding around my waist. His heart rate ticks up a few more beats. 

I think that spike is because of me. At least that’s what I try to tell myself.

His heart rate stays up for the rest of the day. At least ten to fifteen beats higher per minute than I’m used to. He always runs warm so I can’t say for certain if he’s running a fever. My feet warm up as soon as I tuck them between his. His arm is warm across my waist. His tail wraps around my ankle.

Simon’s breaths are slow and even when he finally falls asleep. I count the heartbeats, steady as a metronome, just at a higher pace.

It takes me a while to fall asleep.

_Day 6_

**Simon**

I’ve got a tickle in my throat. We had rice with lunch and I don’t remember accidentally inhaling a grain but it’s hard to say. Baz was making me laugh, reading texts from Dev and Niall out loud to me. They’re holed up with Dev’s family for the duration.

I clear my throat a few times to dislodge it but nothing happens. Baz whips his head around to stare at me when I do. I wave him off. “I’m all right, you git. Just had a bit of rice go down the wrong way.”

“That was hours ago.”

I flap my hand at him again. “And? You know how it is. Still feels like it’s there sometimes, even after you swallow it.” His eyes haven’t left my face, intent and penetrating. Merlin, he’s not looked at me like that since Watford. Like he’s trying to stare into my very soul. “It’s nothing, stop being a mother hen.”

Baz narrows his eyes. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Right as rain. Now, shut up and turn the telly on. I want to see what David’s going to do on this episode.”

**Baz**

Simon clears his throat again. He’s been doing it since before dinner and he’s doing it again now, as we watch the season finale of The Great British Baking Show to see if David is actually going to win this competition when he’s never even won one Star Baker designation.

His heart rate is still higher than usual, just like it’s been for the past two days.

“Do you want me to make you some tea?” I ask.

He tilts his head up from where it’s resting on my shoulder and grins. “That would be grand.”

The tea doesn’t seem to help much. Simon’s still doing that throat clearing business when we head to bed. I’m used to having him be the one to curl his arms around me when we settle in for the night, but for some reason tonight I open up my arms and he curls into my shoulder, one arm across my waist, wings tucked in, his tail curving around my ankle.

I trace lazy patterns into his forearm with my one hand and slide the other around his shoulder to just below his wing joint and rub there, eliciting a sigh of contentment from him. I know he likes it when I do that.

He doesn’t feel warmer than last night. The throat clearing stops when he falls asleep. I don’t know if it’s my imagination or if his breathing sounds a bit louder tonight. _He’s a mouth breather_ , I remind myself, but the words don’t give me the comfort they usually do. 

I spell him with a **_“get well soon”_** just in case.

_Day 7_

**Baz**

I wake up feeling warm. Simon is sprawled on my chest, face tucked into the crook of my neck. His breathing is louder, more than his usual mouth breathing. I reach up to swipe the curls of his face. They’re damp. His skin is warm, far warmer than usual.

“Simon, love, wake up.”

He groans and pushes his face further into my shoulder.

I need to get the thermometer. I try to slide out of the bed, shift from under his weight but he tightens his arm around my waist and mumbles. “Don’t go.”

I don’t want to go. But I think he’s running a fever and my agitated mind needs to know. I press a kiss to his forehead. It’s hot, too hot. “I’ll be just a minute, love.”

I’m back in an instant. Simon fusses when I make him sit up so I can check his temperature in both ears.

38.2 in the left. 37.9 on the right.

“You’re running a fever, Simon.”

He squints at the thermometer and then scoffs. “That’s not a fever.”

“Anything above 38 is a fever.”

I get a grimace. “You know I run hot, Baz. Always have.” He clears his throat and gives a cough.

It sends a chill through me to hear it.

“Simon.”

“I’m all right, Baz. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I probably always run that.” His eyebrows lower as he frowns up at me. “It’s not like you’ve ever taken my temperature before.”

“I’m getting you some paracetamol.”

“I don’t need it!” I hear him grumble as I leave the room.

I’m back with the paracetamol and a large glass of water. “Drink up. Every drop. I’m not letting you get dehydrated.”

Simon grudgingly takes the pills and downs half the glass. “Happy now? Merlin, Baz, you’re worse than the nurse at Watford.”

“Finish the water.” I get an eye roll but he finishes it and places the glass on his nightstand before collapsing back onto his pillow.

“Get back in bed, Baz. It’s too early to get up.” He opens his arms and I crawl right into his embrace.

He tucks his head into the crook of my neck. “You can just spell me better. It’s what Penny always used to do.”

I stroke my hand along his forearm. “I’ll keep that in mind.” I don’t tell him I already did that, when he was sleeping.

Simon tilts his head up and tries to raise one eyebrow. Both go up, like they always do, and he smirks at me. “And if it gets bad enough you can always just Turn me.”

“Shut up, you nightmare.” I swat his arm as he starts to laugh. It brings on a coughing fit that lasts longer than I’d like.

By mid-afternoon his temperature is up again. 38.5 this time. He’s on the sofa tucked under a blanket, and this time he doesn’t argue when I hand him the paracetamol. I cast a quiet **_“cool down”_** on him and add a **_“get well soon”_** for good measure.

The cough is becoming more frequent. I cast **_“an apple a day”_** along with the **_“get well soon”_** this time.

His temperature is up again three hours later. It’s too soon for another dose of paracetamol. I cast another **_“cool down”_** on him. I need a better spell than this. One that lasts longer. I wish I could remember what my mother used to use for fever when I was small.

It’s been too many years. 

“I’m going to call, Simon.”

The puzzled expression on his face would be endearing if he wasn’t so unnaturally flushed. “Call who?”

“The hotline.”

“Oh, come on, Baz. I’ve not got it. How could I? You’ve not let me leave the house all week.”

I’m on hold for an hour. When someone finally comes on the line I’m transferred to another line, where I wait on hold again.

By the time I speak to an actual person, Simon is dozing on the sofa. His heart rate is higher than earlier, and his breathing is raspier as well.

The person on the other end of the line tells me he should stay home. He doesn’t meet criteria for testing, and he’s had no contact with anyone who’s tested positive.

As if we would know. His classmates have scattered since last week. Who knows if one of them has it by now and Simon was exposed?

 _“We are suggesting having patients go to hospital if the symptoms get significantly worse or he develops trouble breathing,”_ the man on the line says before ringing off.

Simon has the audacity to look smug from his nest of blankets. “I’ll be fine, Baz. Even if I have it, they said most people feel like they’ve got the flu, nothing worse than that. I can ride this out.”

I dose him right before we go to bed for the night, and I put as much magic as I can into my spell. Simon goes to sleep, his breathing heavy and thick. His tail thumps once against my leg then goes still.

I text Penelope.

_**Me:** He’s got a fever._

_**Penelope** : How high? When did it start? Did you try a ‘cool down’ on him?_

_**Me:** This morning. 38.5. Multiple ‘cool down’s attempted. A few ‘get well soons’ as well._

_**Penelope:** Shit. Do you think he’s got it or could it be something else?_

_**Me:** His heart rate’s up. His breathing’s louder. _

_**Penelop** e: Mum says to try a ‘hale and hearty’ or an ‘on the mend’_

_**Me:** fuck it all. Why didn’t I think of that?_

_**Penelope:** you don’t get sick anymore, remember? Can’t be expected to remember healing spells._

_**Me:** I should if I’m around Simon_

_**Penelope:** you’re just anxious about him. It’s making you fret so you’re not thinking clearly._

_**Penelope** : I only know a few from being his dread companion for so long. _

_**Me:** I should have gotten a tutorial from you before you left. I still can’t seem to get that angel wing spell to work out properly for me. _

_**Penelope:** you do all right with ‘out of sight out of mind’. I’ll make sure you’ve got the hang of the other one before your trip._

_**Me:** what trip? I can’t imagine this situation will be cleared up by June. _

_**Penelope:** don’t say that Baz. It can’t be as bad as all that, can it?_

_**Me:** I don’t know. I just don’t know._

_**Penelope:** message me in the morning. And don’t hesitate to text if you need me. I can come back. _

_**Me:** you are bloody well not coming back, not with Simon sick. I can’t have you catch it too. I’ll be fine. I just got a bit spooked by it. _

_**Penelope:** text me in the morning. And if you’re really worried call Dr. Wellbelove. Have you got his number?_

_**Me:** No_

_**Penelope:** I’ll send it to you. Get some sleep Baz. _

My mobile pings a few moments later with Dr. Wellbelove’s information. I file it in my contacts and put him in my favorites, just in case.

I don’t sleep. I can feel it when Simon’s heart rate ratchets up, when his fever starts to climb. I spend the night casting spell after spell on him.

_Day 8_

**Simon**

My chest feels raw, scraped, bruised. Like I felt after I tussled with that gryphon sixth year. Like I’ve breathed in fire, lungs seared and smoky.

I open my eyes to morning sunlight. It makes my head hurt.

It’s too bright.

I can feel Baz shift in the bed next to me. I roll over towards him but I start to cough instead. It’s worse today. Thick and wet.

I can feel Baz’s eyes on me. I squint up at him and try to smile. It feels lopsided. My whole face feels dense and doughy, takes effort to even look up at him. I close my eyes again at his expression, at the overwhelming concern I see there.

His fingers glide over my forehead. I press my head against his hand. It feels good, the coolness feels so good.

“You’re burning up, love.” Baz’s lips touch my temple, the chill lingering even after he’s pulled away. “I’m going to get you some medicine.”

I don’t have the energy to argue, just close my eyes and burrow into my pillow. There’s a brief touch on my shoulder and it takes me a minute to realize it’s the tip of his wand. His words float over my head.

**_“Get well soon.”_ **

**_“Hale and hearty.”_ **

**_“Cool it now.”_ **

“Waste of magic,” I mumble. “One’ll do.”

Baz taps his wand on my shoulder. “None of that now. I’ll be back with your medicine and some tea in a minute. Don’t even think about getting up.”

I think I fall asleep again because next thing I know Baz is shaking me gently. I feel the mattress sink as he sits on the edge of the bed, and then his lips are pressed against my forehead whispering “ ** _kiss it better”_** against my skin.

“That’s a family spell, you wanker,” I rasp at him but I can already sense a rush of coolness spreading through me, starting from that spot on my forehead and washing down to the tips of my toes.

“I told you already, you nightmare. You are my family.”

It takes a few minutes but I can feel the difference. My face still feels puffy but my head doesn’t hurt as much. I can sit up and drink the tea Baz has brought me and swallow down the paracetamol as well.

I’m too tired to get up but I need to take a piss. Baz slides an arm around my waist and helps lift me off the bed. The room spins, and I’d be on the floor if he wasn’t holding me up. My head’s swimming. We wobble to the loo and I actually sit down to take a piss, like an old man, which is near the most humiliating thing I’ve ever done in front of Baz, and I’ve done my fair share of humiliating things. He stands in front of me and lets me lean into him, stroking my hair over and over. My arms feel like dead weight but I manage to wrap them around his thighs as I sit there. His fingers never stop carding through my hair.

When I’m done pissing, Baz washes my hands as I sit, dries them off with a towel, then squats down in front of me, so we’re eye to eye. He’s too pale. Has he fed? I wonder if he’s fed. His voice pulls me out of my thoughts. “Can you make it back, Simon? I’ll carry you back if you can’t, don’t think I won’t.”

“’M not having you carry me back, like I’m some sort of invalid.” I make a feeble attempt to growl at him but it just comes out wheezy.

“You are an invalid, you idiot.”

“You’re bloody well not carrying me,” I rasp. “You look like hell. When was the last time you fed?”

He leans forward and kisses my forehead. “What did I ever do to deserve you, Simon Snow.” And he says it so gently, so softly, that I know he means it, he’s not being a twat or taking the piss.

I should be asking what I did to deserve him.

He gets me up and we stumble our way to the corridor. I have to stop and catch my breath before we even get to my room. Baz is all that’s keeping me from sliding to the floor. My knees feel like they’re going to buckle right out from under me. 

My back aches and my head aches and I’m so knackered I end up falling asleep in Baz’s arms almost as soon as I get into bed.

**Baz**

I keep casting **_“kiss it better”_** on Simon but it doesn’t last. It made his breathing easier and his fever came down for an hour or two but that was it. I’ve cast so many different spells on him today but nothing fucking lasts.

Nothing lasts and I’m spent. I didn’t get any sleep last night, and I’ve been casting spells on him every hour or two for over a day now. I won’t be able to keep this up.

He was right, irritatingly observant muppet that he is. I need to feed. I’ve barely left him long enough to take a piss, let alone down a pint of blood.

He’s barely taken anything in today. Half a mug of tea. A few sips of water. I can’t remember when he last ate anything solid. I got a bit of broth in him yesterday.

I can’t believe I’m actually grateful for the fact that he has Bovril on hand.

I tuck the blanket up over his shoulders and slide out of bed. The clock reads two-forty-three. I make my way to the kitchen in the dark, grab a pint of blood and heat it up in the microwave. I’ve no patience for using a saucepan right now and I’ll be damned if I waste any magic on myself.

It ends up being lukewarm because I didn’t want to boil it but I swallow it down, rinse the container and my mouth out, and head back to Simon’s room.

I’m going to call Dr. Wellbelove if he’s no better by morning. I’ve been going over my options since last night.

He likely meets criteria for testing now but as there’s no medication, they’d either send us home to continue doing what we’re doing, or if he looks bad enough they’ll admit him to hospital. That way he’d get fluids and possibly some medications to help him get through the worst of it, oxygen if his breathing deteriorates.

I don’t want to think about it deteriorating.

But if Simon gets admitted to hospital they won’t let me stay with him. I know that. He’ll go into isolation. And no amount of wheedling, demanding or cash on hand will get them to let me stay with him. (It’s distressing that I can’t cast an invisibility spell on myself.)

I can’t let him go alone. I can spell his wings for a bit, with the droid spell. I can spell them with _“out of sight, out of mind”_ too. But the spells won’t _last._ The droid one might get us twelve to fourteen hours, maybe. _“Out of sight, out of mind”_ will only last as long as Simon doesn’t think about his wings. That could be hours or mere minutes with him in this condition. I can’t risk it.

And even Penelope’s angel spell is of no use to me now. There are far too many alarms in a hospital ward. His wings would manifest as soon as the first device in his room beeped.

Fuck it all.

There’s no good option, not unless Dr. Wellbelove has a hospital ward somewhere specifically for mages.

Simon starts coughing in the middle of the night. And he doesn’t stop.

_Day 9_

**Baz**

I call Dr. Wellbelove at sunup. It rings and rings and then goes to voicemail. I leave a message, hang up, then peek at Simon from the doorway to his room. He’s asleep still, but I can hear his breathing from here—wet and thick, rasping and bubbling. 

If anything, it’s worse than last night. I started casting **_“breathe easy”_** hours ago but it’s not making an appreciable difference.

I need to speak to someone, anyone. I don’t know what to do. I think Simon should be in hospital but the ramifications of Normals finding out about him would likely put him in even graver danger.

I don’t know what to do

I call my father.

He doesn’t serve me up any platitudes, doesn’t offer false hope by telling me things will be just fine, doesn’t make any promises he can’t keep. He lets me pour out my fear and uncertainty, listens to my jumbled words and half-sobbed sentences, and then says what I need to hear.

“What do you need from me, Basil? How can I help Simon?”

“I need to talk to someone who knows what they’re doing, Father. I need someone who can actually _help me_.” I rake a hand through my hair and clench my fist in it, pulling at the strands until it hurts.

“I’ll call Wellby myself. He may not have recognized your number. Give me a few moments.”

He hangs up and I slip my mobile in my pocket, both hands tugging at my hair. I don’t know when the tears started but they’re trailing down my face, falling in splashes on my shirt.

I don’t know when I last changed my shirt. I don’t know when I last ate something. I don’t know what day of the week it is.

I don’t know anything anymore. I’ve not felt this helpless since I was with the numpties but this is somehow infinitely worse because I’m safe and alert and uninjured and I have my wand and _none of it is making any fucking difference._

My mobile vibrates in my pocket and I yank it out and stare at the screen. It’s Dr. Wellbelove.

“Basilton!” His voice booms through the speaker when I shakily hit the _answer_ button. “Your father said you needed me. How can I help?”

The words pour out of me. I don’t know if I’m even making any sense. I’m babbling at him, repeating the spells I’ve tried, trying to describe the way Simon’s breathing sounds, the way his coughs rip through him. The way I need him to help me with Simon, how I need him to tell me what to do.

How I need him to come do it for me.

“Basilton.” Dr. Wellbelove voice cuts through my words. “Take a deep breath for me.”

“I’m not worried about myself, I know I can’t get it . . . but Simon . . .”

“Basilton. I need you to breathe.”

I take a gasping breath and then blow the air out, loud enough so he can hear me, loud enough that he knows I’ve done it and we can _get on with it._ This isn’t about me.

“All right. Now keep taking those breaths and let me talk for a moment, can you do that for me?” He’s got his kind, soothing voice thing going. It makes my stomach clench in apprehension. “Now, what you’re describing does sound like the virus. And everything you’ve been doing is exactly what I’d suggest.” There’s a pause on the line and I hear him take a breath himself. My anxiety ratchets up another notch. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I can’t come to you, Basil. I’m in California. We were visiting Agatha and ended up stranded here, with no way back at the moment.”

My knees buckle and I sit heavily on the arm of the sofa, sliding clumsily onto the cushions themselves as the full import of his words hits me. He can’t come. He can’t help me.

No one can help me.

He’s still talking but all I hear is static.

“Basil? Basil, can you answer me, please.”

I croak out a “yes.”

Dr. Wellbelove keeps talking. “I know this wasn’t what you were expecting but listen, there are some spells I can teach you that might help.”

I repeat them after him.

**_“Right as rain.”_ **

**_“Fit as a fiddle.”_ ** ****

**_“All’s well that ends well.”_ **

**_“Back on your feet.”_ **

**_“On the mend.”_ **

**_“Just what the doctor ordered.”_ ** ****

He tells me what syllable to put stress on, which word to focus my magic on, the particular inflection that increases the potency of the spell. I scribble it all down on a piece of paper.

And then I ask the question that’s been threatening to burst from me. “What if these don’t work?”

There’s a moment of silence on the line. And then a sigh. “I don’t know what to tell you, Basil. Simon’s always been resilient—”

I interrupt him. “That was when he had magic. He’s not got magic. You saw how he was when we brought him to you, when we came back from America.”

Dr. Wellbelove clears his throat. “He may not have his magic anymore but Simon is still magic. There is still some vestige of it in him, that makes him something more than a Normal. I’m not saying he’s got some magickal ability that will guarantee he survives this, I can’t promise you that. But he’s not as vulnerable as a Normal either. I don’t know how else to say it.”

“All that says to me is that he might last longer than a Normal but if he can’t breathe for himself he’s still going to die of this!” The silence on the line stretches between us. “What will happen if I take him to a hospital, Dr. Wellbelove?”

I hear an intake of breath and then he speaks again. “In the best circumstances, he’d be put on a ventilator and aggressively supported medically until his lungs had a chance to recover.” 

“And if his wings and tail manifested?”

The silence on the line tells me all I need to know.

“Right. That’s what I thought.”

**Simon**

My throat burns.

My chest aches.

It’s all too bright.

But every time I open my eyes Baz is there, eyes wide and calm and focused on me.

I reach out for him and he takes my hand in his. “Is this where I have to admit you were right?” My voice doesn’t even sound like my own when I speak.

He squeezes my hand and brushes the hair from my face. I get lost in the shifting grey of his eyes but he doesn’t smile at my words. “I’ve never wished so hard to be wrong, Simon. Trust me.”

“I do trust you.” I try to squeeze his hand back but my fingers feel stiff and fat. “You can always Turn me if it gets too bad.” I try to smile but my face feels too thick, too tight. “I’d not mind.”

My eyes close.

I’m so damn tired. 

_Day 10_

**** **Baz**

Simon’s temperature is 39.6 in the morning and that’s with me casting spells all day yesterday and all through the night. I used every one Dr. Wellbelove suggested. I’m exhausted and my magic is wavering now. I cast another ** _“cool down”_** on him just the same.

I can taste the fear in the back of my throat, rancid and thick, all bile and bitterness. I swallow it down, feel the tightness move to my chest as I school my features, keep my voice calm and soothing for Simon. I can barely get him to swallow down two paracetamols.

He hardly even opens his eyes and I can’t get him to sit up fully. I’m afraid he’ll choke on the pills, slumped on his side the way he is. I cast **_“a spoonful of sugar”_** to make sure the medicine goes down and coax him to take a few more swallows of water. A spasm of coughing racks him as he takes a sip and his mouthful of water sprays out over my shirt.

His face crumples in dismay. “Baz.” His voice is just a croak, not even recognizable as Simon’s voice anymore. “Baz, I’m . . . I’m . . . so . . .” Another fit of coughing robs him of his words.

There are tears in the corners of his eyes when he pauses to take a breath and I know they’re not from the coughing alone. “’M sorry.” The words wheeze out of him and I touch my finger to his lips.

“Simon, no, love, nothing to apologize for.” I let my hand rest on his cheek, the heat of his skin instantly warming my fingers. He’s too warm. Crowley, he’s too warm.

My spells aren’t bringing his fever down at all anymore.

“Don’t try to talk, love. Don’t wear yourself out.” I grip my wand tightly and brush it over his forehead then lean down to whisper another **_“kiss it better”_** before I press my lips to his skin. It’s the only spell that seems to make even the slightest difference anymore.

I’ve run through so many. Ones I’ve searched out myself, others that Penelope has texted me, the entire list Dr. Wellbelove suggested.

This is the only one with any noticeable effect anymore, and I think it’s due to the fact that it harnesses the power of love and that’s a bottomless well in me, as far as Simon is concerned.

His breathing eases a bit and I prop him up with a few pillows behind his back, adjusting his wings to make it more comfortable for him. He’s pale, paler than I’ve ever seen him before, each mole and freckle set out in stark detail, his blue eyes dull and bloodshot, circles around them like faded bruises.

His tail hangs off the bed, limp and unmoving. I’ve never seen his tail so still.

I take his hand in mine, feel his warm fingers twitch against my own. I lift our intertwined hands to my lips, tap them with my wand and whisper the spell again as I kiss his heated skin.

Simon’s eyes follow my movements. His lips quiver into a shadow of a smile. “That shouldn’t work,” he rasps. If nothing else the spell has quieted his coughing for the moment.

I make a show of rolling my eyes, trying to maintain any shred of normalcy I can for him. “I told you, you numpty, you are my family.”

“I . . . was . . . I wanted . . .” He pauses and takes a few breaths before continuing. “To do . . . do it first.”

“Do what first?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. He’s not got magic anymore. How could he do the spell first? I wonder if he’s delirious. Crowley, don’t let him be delirious.

“Make . . . you . . . family.”

My breath catches at his words, even though I don’t understand what he means by them. “What are you saying, Simon?” I sweep the matted curls off his forehead, stroke my fingers along his cheek. He leans into my hand, closing his eyes for an instant. My heart constricts in my chest at that nestling movement, skipping a beat before picking up the pace again, cracks running through its fragile walls at the vulnerability of him in this moment.

“Was . . . was going . . . to ask.” He takes another breath, eyes closing again.

I go still. My heart leaps at what I think he’s saying but no, it can’t be that. He can’t mean that.

“Ask . . . you.” Another breath. “To . . . be . . . to . . .” He leans back, eyes still closed, breaths coming more rapidly, but shallower than they were before. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, a clamminess in the hand that is gripping mine. Simon’s next words are barely above a whisper but they may as well be a shout for what they do to my soul. “Marry . . . me.”

The cracks in my heart spread, coalesce, splinter, as the brittle, delicate walls of it shatter in my chest.

“Simon.” His name rips out from me in a sob. He’s breathing but he doesn’t stir at my words.

I can’t . . . I can’t let myself think about what he said. I can’t . . . I can’t . . .

Fuck. I squeeze my eyes shut and fist my hands in my hair.

I have to call 999 now. I’m off the bed, scrabbling for my mobile. This is it. I’ve got to get him to hospital. He needs oxygen, a ventilator, more support than I can ever give him here.

I’ll spell his wings.

I’ll find a way to stay with him. I can steal a mask and gown, look like one of the hospital staff. Long enough to get inside his room.

I’ll hide under his fucking hospital bed so I can keep spelling his wings.

It’s bollocks, all of it. It’ll never work but I don’t care, I have to do something. He’s going to die in front of me.

Simon is on the bed. He’s still breathing. His lips are blue.

I cast another **_“breathe easy.”_**

Then I cast the spell for his wings.

And nothing happens.

I cast it again. **_“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”_**

Simon’s wings stay visible.

**_“Out of sight out of mind.”_ ** ****

Nothing happens.

I cast Penelope’s angel spell and _nothing fucking happens._

Is it my magic? Am I tapped out? I don’t feel tapped out. I don’t feel empty, like I did when the Humdrum took my magic.

I try once more, my arm shaking with effort.

It’s no good. His wings are still there.

I cast a **_“light of day”_** and the tip of my wand flares bright.

It’s not my magic. It’s not my wand.

It’s Simon.

I can’t call an ambulance. I can’t bring him to hospital like this.

They’ll never take him. They’ll never treat him if he looks like some mutant from the X-Men. They’ll let him die. Or take him away to some lab and keep him alive for experiments.

I can’t let that happen.

My arm shakes as my wand touches his skin, the words shouted out as I cast spell after spell on him, as I kiss his eyelids, his lips, his forehead while murmuring **_“kiss it better”_** again and again.

I slump onto the bed and gather him in my arms. I keep casting.

I would give my life for his, if I could. I’ve always been willing to do that for Simon. I would do anything in this moment, anything to find a way to keep him with me. Any spell, forbidden or not, I don’t give a damn right now.

There is nothing I wouldn’t do to save his life.

 _“You can always Turn me if it gets too bad.”_ Simon’s words from last night rattle in my brain.

Not that, Crowley, not that. I’ve never wanted it to come to that.

I look at the hand I’m holding. It’s almost as pale as mine now.

No, I can’t think about this.

I can’t let myself think about it.

He’s warm in my arms, still and heavy, his breathing shallow and labored.

Simon’s lips look even more blue in this light.

They look like mine.

_They look like mine._

I said I’d do anything to keep him alive.

_“You can always Turn me if it gets too bad.”_

That’s not being alive.

_“You can always Turn me if it gets too bad.”_

Fuck. It’s not alive but it’s better than losing him.

I don’t know how to do it.

It’s the only thing that can save him and I don’t know how to do it.

_I don’t know how to do it._

But I know someone who does.

I give my ridiculous pseudonym to the phone operator at the Katherine and she puts me on hold. Lamb’s amused voice comes through the speaker a moment later. “Baz! Or should I say Chaz? What an unexpected surprise to hear from you. Have you forgiven me yet, for our little misunderstanding?”

I’ve got no time for idle chatter. “How do you Turn someone? I need to know.”

“Oh, Baz.” His voice softens and I can hear the change in his tone when he speaks again. “Is it your boyfriend?”

“Just tell me how I do it, Lamb.”

And he does.

It’s simple really, when it’s laid out. A quick bite, giving it enough time to let the venom spread into the victim’s bloodstream—a few sips, no more. Then a measure of my blood given to him, to trigger the Turning, rather than just the lethargy that comes from the bite.

And then the last step.

I don’t trust him on that one. I don’t believe him.

You don’t need to feed on human blood to complete the transformation. I never have and there’s no question I’m a vampire.

Lamb argues with me. “It’s why you’re aging, Baz. You never completed the process. You never will until you do.”

I hang up on him.

Simon is on the bed. He’s still breathing. His lips are blue.

I don’t want to do this to him.

I have to do this to save him.

I have to do this for him.

_I have to do this for me._

I don’t have time to agonize over it. I can’t think about what Lamb said. I can’t think about the fact that by saving Simon I’ll be willfully completing something I’ve never wanted.

I won’t think about it. I don’t believe him. 

_Betrayer._

I think I should save some of Simon’s human blood just the same. On the chance Lamb isn’t lying to me this time.

Simon is on the bed. He’s still breathing. His lips are blue.

I don’t have time to think.

I down two pints of blood in the kitchen. I need to be full, I need to be sated so I don’t drink too deep.

It’s sloshing in my belly when I race back to Simon’s room.

I can’t ask Simon for permission.

_“You can always Turn me if it gets too bad.”_

I make a nick in his wrist and the scent of burnt popcorn and brown butter hits me as I gather Simon’s blood in a cup.

I set in on the nightstand, next to the pint of pig’s blood I’ve brought from the fridge for him. For after.

I heal the cut.

I touch Simon’s forehead. He’s burning up. He’s breathing but it’s more labored now, each breath rasping out of him. 

His lips are blue.

I sit on the bed and gather him in my arms, press a kiss to his forehead.

I don’t want to do this.

_I’ve always wanted to do this._

I have to do it now. There’s no more time.

My face is wet with tears. I can taste the salt of them on my lips when I press them to Simon’s throat. I breathe in, find the green scent of him under the sweat and stench of this illness.

I trace my lips over his skin until I feel his pulse below my tongue.

My fangs drop.

I close my eyes.

Simon doesn’t move when I break skin. The first taste is bitter but I swallow it down. And then it’s like I always imagined it would be—brown butter and cinnamon, freshly popped corn. I take sip after sip, counting in my head until I get to ten.

And then I pull away.

I pull away and cast a **_“get well soon”_** over the welling puncture holes in his neck.

And then I wait.

I’m not sure what to expect. I was a child when I was Turned. I don’t know how it is for an adult. Lamb said it would be swift.

Simon’s eyes open a few moments later, unfocused, his pupils wide and dark. “It’s all right, love,” I murmur into his hair. “I’ve got you.”

“Baz.” It’s barely there but I hear it. “So thirsty, Baz.”

I’m tempted to just hand him the mug of water that’s by the nightstand. I don’t know if this is the change or if he’s truly thirsty.

I give him the mug of water and he guzzles it down, spilling drops on his chest. “So thirsty.”

I have to do it now. He’s still just a human in thrall until I do it.

I nick my wrist, watch the blood slowly well to the surface. I bring it up in front of Simon’s face. “I need you to do this, love.”

His eyes search out mine. There’s a question there, in the clouded depths of them. I nod my head and move my wrist closer.

“That bad?” The words rasp out of him.

I nod my head again. I don’t think I have the words to tell him how tenuous this is. How close he’s come.

He nods and juts his chin the slightest bit. I let my wrist hover just below his lips. Simon’s eyes meet mine again. “I know. . . know you . . . didn’t want this.” His voice is weak, wheezing with every word.

We’re not in the clear yet. Not until . . . not until he drinks.

“I want you, Simon. That’s all that really matters.”

His lips twitch just a bit at my words. He tilts his head down, lips hovering just above the streak of blood. “I want . . . this.”

He fastens his lips to my skin and I can feel the pull, feel the pulse of me meet the pulse of him. A wave of warmth washes through my body. It’s like a circuit’s been completed. I can feel his lips, his tongue, his teeth.

He sucks and pulls and laps at my skin. I can still taste him on my lips. Feel the thrum of his blood in me.

When Simon pulls away he leaves a smear on my skin. He licks a drop of my blood from his lip then rests his head against my chest.

His breathing slows and I swear each exhale is less labored.

I can feel how his heart beat slows, the way his breaths are deeper, the rattle and rasp diminished.

I hold him against me, run my fingers along his forearm, feel the muscles of his back against the arm I have around his waist. He’s barely even warm now.

I think I’ll miss that the most. The heat of him, the warmth radiating from his body. 

I hold him, hold him to me as the minutes pass, as his skin cools to match my own.

He shifts against my chest. “Is that it then?” Simon asks. His voice is steadier, more like his own again. “Is it done?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”

He looks up at me again, eyes sharper, focusing in on mine, that familiar blue clear and steady now. “How’d you know what to do?”

I suppose I should have expected this.

It all comes out in a rush, the spells I cast, the call to Dr. Wellbelove, the way I couldn’t magick his wings away.

The panic. The fear. I can let it pour out of me now.

Simon puts a finger to my lips and stops the flood of words. “Hey. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything. I’m the one who fucked up. I’m the one who can’t heal worth a damn.”

I’m trembling. The crash I’ve been holding off for days has finally hit me.

His finger taps at my lip. “You didn’t fuck up. I’m here, aren’t I?”

Simon is here. In my arms. Pale and cold and breathing.

I take a few breaths to steady myself. His arm circles my waist and centers me.

“I didn’t want to do this.”

“I know that.”

I need to tell him the rest. He won’t like it but I’m done hiding things from Simon. It’s never worked when we’ve kept things from each other.

“I called . . . when I didn’t know what to do . . . I called Lamb. He’s the one who told me how to Turn you.”

He frowns as I expected. I meet his eyes. I won’t turn away. I’m not ashamed of what I did. Simon wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t done it.

I regret that it was Lamb I had to turn to, but I don’t regret saving Simon’s life. 

“He’s a prick but he probably knows his business.” Simon looks thoughtful. His breathing is steady now, no rasps or wheezes as he speaks. “Did he know it was me you were Turning?”

I nod.

His eyebrows lower again. “You sure he’s told you the right way to do it? That I won’t turn into some imp or demon somehow?”

Leave it to Simon Snow to come up with a question like that.

“I don’t think he’d lie about this. I know where he lives and he knows I would have no reservations about incinerating him.”

“You didn’t very well incinerate him when you had the chance last time,” Simon mutters and my heart skips a beat. Because this is my Simon Snow—grumpy and jealous and speaking his mind.

I poke that freckle I love on his left cheek. “And you very well wouldn’t be here right now, complaining about it, if I had ended him then.”

“I’ll give you that,” he grumbles.

We hold each other in silence for a few moments and then Simon speaks again. “I’m sorry you had to break your vow.”

I stroke his hair. I could lie in this bed all day, with Simon in my arms. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired, this spent.

Or this grateful.

Merlin, above. I think it would have ended me to lose him.

“I can’t think of a better reason to break it.” I weigh my words before I continue. I want him to know this was a one-off for me. I will one day die with the satisfaction that the only human blood that ever crossed my lips was his. “And it won’t happen again. I can promise you that.”

I look at the cup of Simon’s blood on the nightstand. I look at Simon.

He’s breathing normally, heart rate slow and steady as a metronome. I can’t tell if he’s warm or cold—his skin’s the same temperature as mine now.

He’s taken on a pearly shade of grey. Not quite as stark as my own pallor. He’s probably still got some untainted blood of his own pulsing through him. It may take a few hours or days until the vampiric taint overcomes it all.

Simon shifts until his head is level with mine. It’s so quiet without the rattle of his breathing. I catch myself counting his heart beats, his inhalations, when he’s not speaking. It’s all I’ve been doing for days on end. 

“Are you still thirsty?” I gesture towards the night stand. “I brought . . . well, I brought you a bit of my stash, in case you were.”

Simon raises his head off my chest to take in the pint of pig’s blood by the bed.

“I can heat it up for you,” I say. “It’s . . . it’s better if it’s heated up.”

“What’s in the other cup? Is that more of your blood, Baz?”

I shake my head. My voice drops as I answer. “It’s yours.”

“Mine?” His brow furrows and his eyes go back to the cup. “Is there more to what Lamb said?”

I nod again.

“And?”

“He said that the Turning, well, that the Turning’s not complete until you feed on human blood.” My words tumble over each other as I keep speaking. “Which, frankly, I think is a load of rubbish, as I’ve never had human blood before now and I’ve damn well been a vampire for over half my life, so it’s not as if it’s a _required_ part of the process or—”

Simon cuts me off. “You have now.” He’s sitting up now, wings flaring behind him.

“I’ve what now?”

Simon’s tail thumps on the bed. “You’ve had human blood. You’ve been an incomplete bloody vampire for all these years and you fucking crossed that line for me.” He grabs his head in both hands. “Fucking hell, Baz.”

I pull his hands away from his face and meet his eyes head on. “I’d cross every line for you, Simon Snow, _every line._ You are mine and I’m yours and there is nothing, nothing, that I wouldn’t do for you.”

Simon reaches across me, takes the cup of his blood and downs it in one go.

“What are you doing?” I scramble to take it out of his hands but it’s too late. All that’s left is a small clot in the bottom of the cup. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Simon wipes his hand across his mouth and licks his lips. “I’d cross every line for you too, you sappy bastard.” His hands reach out to cup my face. “We’re in this together. Don’t you forget it.”

His mouth meets mine and my eyes fall closed at the sensation. It’s different, without the searing heat of his lips and tongue, but it’s so familiar that it makes my chest ache.

There were moments today when I never thought I’d have this again.

Simon pulls back but stays close enough that my vision fills with the glorious blue of his eyes. “Now we match.”

His lips find mine again and my world narrows down to the cool touch of Simon’s hands, his lips, his tongue dragging against my own.

His tail wraps around my ankle, and I can breathe again.

**Author's Note:**

> temperatures are in Celsius  
> Fahrenheit equivalents are:  
> 37.9=100.2  
> 38.2=100.7  
> 38.5=101.3  
> 39.6=103.2


End file.
